


Pockets and Promises

by firetoflame



Series: Their Love was Short and Sweet [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:03:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3250706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firetoflame/pseuds/firetoflame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she whispers to him that she doesn't need her hands to kill Mundungus Fletcher, he absolutely believes her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pockets and Promises

As far as stakeouts go, Remus has seen better. Warmer definitely, with more activity than this rusted-out hole in the wall.

They're supposed to be monitoring for potential Death Eater activity.

He doubts there's even mouse activity inside.

And seeing as this was Mundungus' tip off, Remus wouldn't put it past the old coot to have sent them to an outdated smugglers binge that he remembers from one of his whiskey induced deal-makings.

As far as stakeout partners go, though, this one is his favourite. And he can gladly count on two hands the number of times they've been partners over the past few weeks. Either Sirius is toying with him and the schedule, or fate has finally decided to give this old werewolf a break.

Speaking of partners, he notes that his has fallen rather (uncharacteristically) quiet.

"You're shaking," Remus says, quite aware that the chatter he hears is not Nymphadora's usual string of non-stop soliloquy, but the rock and fall of her teeth.

"It's f-freezing out here," she says in a puff of ice smoke. "Didn't think it was supposed to be this c-cold yet! I'm going to k-kill Dung when we get back." Her breath curls tendrils around her face, snaking crooked patterns up the side of her cheeks and around tufts of pink fringe that poke out from beneath the fluorescent yellow beanie.

She's a clash of colour tonight, painted luminous under the stars: horrifically, terribly thrown together, like melting sherbet, and yet so incredibly Tonks that it can look nothing but right.

Her hands hold her elbows, pulling her arms closer for warmth. Her fingers are white, like the waxing moon above.

"Here," Remus says, reaching for her hands. His fingers, bold and warm, take hers, pulling them almost flush to his mouth. He lets out a steamy breath that threatens to melt more than just the chill from her veins and reduce her to a senseless puddle of goo.

She counts to five, willing the butterflies back into their hole or cocoons or whatever ill-fated crevice they've managed to escape from this time.

Nymphadora Tonks does not swoon.

_She does not!_

But there's a different kind of tingle at the tips of her fingers now.

"Better?" he asks, his grip tightening as another puff of frozen air escapes her.

"Yes," she says, but he does not let her slip away.

Instead, he guides her hands down the front of his jacket and slips them into his pockets.

She sighs then, the warmth of his palms and the softness of the wool lined pockets creating a pillowed escape from the chill.

"Better?" he asks again.

She's pretty sure his thumbs are tracing her knuckles.

"Much," she says.

He smiles, a shy grin that turns almost cocky as she sidles up to him, closer and closer. "Well, we can't have your fingers freeze off," he says. "How else are you going to kill, Mundungus?"

"Oh, I don't need my hands to kill, Dung. Though I appreciate your concern."

Remus scoffs, mostly because he believes her. There's a dark, ever-present twinkle in her eye that he can never fully ignore. It's the part of her that makes her a good Auror, he supposes.

And though he thinks she's a rather remarkable witch—equal parts witty and flamboyant and occasionally clumsy—there is no denying that she is a Dark Wizard catcher, trained under Mad-eye to hunt and, if the need arises, to kill.

So, _yes_ , when she whispers to him that she doesn't need her hands to kill Mundungus Fletcher, he absolutely believes her. He believes her even though her lips twist jokingly and her cheeks glow pink. Even though she bats long eyelashes and exhales the remains of mint tea against his chest.

He believes her because she's slowly, softly killing _him_ and this might in fact be the most dangerous part of her. The ability she has to unnerve and distract him with glances and hums and nods of her head. With chuckles and laughs and eyebrow raises. With delicate shivers and the chattering of teeth.

He's so unbelievably distracted by her that he refuses to let her go for the rest of the evening, standing toe to toe, staring openly as their fingers twine in his pockets. Her head falls against his shoulder at one point, her weight warm against his front and she sighs, contentedly.

There's some small victory party going off in his chest about it.

As the night wears on Remus decides that he quite likes pockets. They're functional, fashionable, and maybe just the tiniest bit romantic.

He also reminds himself to buy Mundungus a beer. Tonight's stakeout turns out to be one of his favourites.

 


End file.
